


The Case of the Explosive Christmas

by LilacAndGooseberry



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Bombs, Brother-Sister Relationships, Case Fic, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Enola in 221B, F/M, Family Reunions, Gen, Sequel, Suffragettes, ludicrous plot, mostly an excuse for a nice winter stroll in Kew Gardens, siblings being siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacAndGooseberry/pseuds/LilacAndGooseberry
Summary: Enola Holmes really wants to host a family Christmas party in Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes really wants to get this idea out of her head. To distract her he sends her to investigate the mysterious death of a Kew Gardens botanist, a perfect excuse to drag a certain Viscount back on an adventure...
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Eudoria Vernet Holmes, Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 6
Kudos: 78
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	1. Nip It In The Bud

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shoemaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoemaster/gifts).



> Thank you shoemaster for the great prompts and suggestions, it was so helpful and inspiring and made this an absolute blast to write! I really wanted to write a fun Christmas story with a little bit of a typical, weird sherlocky case thrown in the middle, so hopefully this is it.
> 
> I really enjoyed the movie but was a little disappointed by the way it underused the suffragette movement and basically told Enola that the best way to change the world is to... get your boyfriend in Parliament I guess? So this is my revenge... The movement actually didn't really start using bombings as a mean of protest until the early 20th century, but since the film hinted at it I thought I could twist reality a little too. 
> 
> Anyway, merry Christmas, I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it!

The bacon was missing from the breakfast tray again.

With an irritated sigh, Sherlock Holmes threw a dark look at the young girl sprawled on the floor of his sitting room of 221B Baker Street: she had caught all the strips of bacon, cooked to perfection by the diligent Mrs Hudson, between two slices of bread and was chewing enthusiastically on them while reading the day's newspapers spread out on the carpet in front of her.

Sherlock helped himself to some tea. “Good morning Enola...”

The girl looked up with a smile. “Oh, good morning brother!” And immediately dived back into her frantic reading.

Sherlock frowned at the empty milk jug. “Are you enjoying your breakfast?”

“Oh yes very much thank you! I took the liberty of finishing the bacon since I wasn't sure you were going to be up before lunch, you do have the strangest sleeping habits...”

Sensing his temper rise, Sherlock crossed the room and snatched some of the papers from around her. The clear annoyance in the snappy gesture was completely lost on her. Sherlock went back to the breakfast table and sat down to read half of his paper, enjoying his dry toast and black tea while repetitively glancing at the girl with the annoyed insistence and barely concealed aggressivity of a cat suddenly forced to share his territory with a new family pet.

It had been a few weeks now since Enola Holmes had moved into her prestigious brother's no less prestigious quarters on Baked Street, and the cohabitation had been... complicated. While it had seemed like such an easy decision at first the detective was now wondering if, for the first time in his life, he might have bitten off more than he could chew. At first he had truly enjoyed watching the young woman find her marks in his place. He had given her the spare bedroom and had watched her carefully place her painting supplies on a corner of the window sill, move her desk in front of it to catch the light, lovingly hang her clothes in the tiny closet, and try to arrange some flowers in a vase in a rare attempt at home-making. He had enjoyed observing her like a fascinating specimen or a new puzzle to solve.

And yes, despite what he had been claiming for years, it had been _nice_ to have someone to share his life with. Someone to gawk at his laboratory equipment, someone to do research with, to bounce ideas off, and share his excitement when he cracked a case. Someone to joke and complain about Mycroft with. In a hidden, atrophied part of his brain he had had to admit he had enjoyed having her around. At first. For about five seconds.

Sherlock Holmes was a man of habits. Granted, his habits might sometimes be considered strange and chaotic by most people, but after living all of his adult life on his own and with very few friends and no family around he had become quite accustomed to living his life as he pleased without having to constantly worry about how it might affect, endanger and, worst of all, be judged by the sixteen-year-old now sharing his everyday life. He liked his breakfast served at a certain time, his room “organised” a certain way, and coming home knowing what to expect there. He liked being able to stay silent for entire days while working on cases, meeting clients in the privacy and quiet of his own sitting-room, and letting dangerous chemicals and half finished experiments lying around without having to worry about who might accidentally bump into them. Enola on the other hand was the closest thing he had ever met to a feral cat in human form. Time and space didn't mean anything to her. Especially private space. And private time. She seemed to stumble through life from one exciting thing to another with an unpredictability he struggled to handle. A little self-examination might have helped Sherlock Holmes realise the reason for his discomfort probably stemmed from the fact that his sister and him shared a lot of those annoying traits, but the greatest mastermind of his time wasn't quite ready to accept that even him could let his judgement get clouded by sibling rivalry.

On two occasions already Enola had disappeared for the entire night, only crawling back in at the crack of dawn covered in mud and salt water to an over-agitated Mrs Hudson who had insisted he “talk to her this time”. He had sat her down in one of the two enormous armchairs in front of the fire and had vaguely talked about propriety, responsibility, and London's rising crime rates in an awkward conversation the memory of which still shook him to his very soul. He hadn't enjoyed picturing their mother's wrath if he had lost her, and enjoyed even less the sinking feeling in his stomach when contemplating living the rest of his life without her, which seemed contradictory to his previous observations in a way that infuriated him even more.

“There are quite a few potential new cases today,” said his small invader from her ocean of crumbs and papers. “It must be the approach of the holidays, it always gets people riled up...”

“Yes,” laughed Sherlock, “but it generally turns out to be fairly self-explanatory: family feuds exploding, secrets getting exposed, it's rarely worth our time.”

“All right, how about this one.” Enola dragged one of the papers towards her and started reading aloud “ _Missing person: Mary Sutherland promises substantial reward for information on the whereabouts of her fiancé, Hosmer Angel._ ”

“Her fiancé doesn't exist, her stepfather is honey trapping her.”

“...How?”

Sherlock couldn't contain a smirk behind his paper but didn't offer any explanation.

“All right, next... “ _Incredible heist: world's biggest emerald stolen from National History Museum just days before exclusive exhibition_ ”?”

“Hum, looks like Irene Adler is back in town...”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“ _Napoleon-hater on the run: lunatic smashing busts of French Emperor all around London._ ”

“There's something hidden in one of them. Probably that priceless pearl which got stolen from the Prince of Colonna's bedroom at the Dacre Hotel. I might send Lestrade a note.”

“ _Mysterious explosion in Kew Gardens last night: Botanist Dr Eugene Thesiger killed_.” They think it might be a bomb attack from the Suffragettes which seems quite unlikely don't you think? The man had literally just come back from a research trip in South America...”

“Well, who knows what our dear mother's friends are angry about these days...” Sherlock stood up and folded his paper, eager to put an end to the conversation. He finished his tea, throwing a glance at Enola who was pensively biting her lips on the carpet. Every previous attempt at discussing politics together hadn't ended well. Sherlock kept hiding his ignorance and discomfort under the pretence of boredom, and Enola, while craving information and tempted to instinctively side with her mother, still felt ill-equipped to hold a well-argued political debate against her impressive and educated adult brother.

Sherlock moved to his laboratory table and started setting up his chemistry set for the day. He wasn't really working on a specific case at the moment, but had a few experiments about the flammability of different types of cotton and linen fabrics he was excited to dive back into.

Unfortunately Enola's perception was based on movement and seeing him walk instantly snapped her out of her thoughts. She jumped on her feet. “Actually, I've had a thought.”

“...A thought?” Sherlock mumbled, looking around the room for his notebook.

“Yes, you see, after everything that happened this year, with mother disappearing and me being reunited with you and Mycroft, and moving in with you...”

“Hum yes...” Sherlock frowned at the pile of papers on the breakfast table and started looking through a tower of books and notebooks precariously perched between a dying pot plant and a life-size skeleton model. Enola followed him around the room. “Well yes so, I was reunited with you and Mycroft but we didn't really get a chance to celebrate all together and with Mother....” She dodged one of the couch cushions absent-mindedly thrown around by her brother still lost in his desperate search. “So anyway, I thought it would be nice to do something as a family for the holidays...”

“As a family....” Sherlock repeated pensively. He finally found what he was looking for tucked under the sofa between a Persian slipper and an old arsenic bottle. He turned around triumphantly and gasped at seeing her standing right behind him.

“I think we should throw a Christmas party.”

Never had the face of Sherlock Holmes been frozen in such an intense expression of shock and horror.

“A Christmas party?... Us? Here? Why?”

“To bring the family together!”

Sherlock moved back to his laboratory table and put his protective goggles on in the hope of putting an end to this absurd conversation.

“I'm sure Mycroft and Mother already have plans.”

“I doubt it,” fought back Enola. “It could be so nice, we could decorate and ask Mrs Hudson to cook a nice Christmas meal, I'll help her! And we could have games, and mulled wine and gifts...” Enola jumped a little when Sherlock suddenly started the Bunsen burner but soldiered on. “I think it would just be nice... you know, to be together, at last...”

Sherlock removed his goggles. “Look, the Holmes don't do Christmas. Not since Father died. I don't like surprises, Mother doesn't like gifts, and Mycroft and I are no longer allowed to play charades...”

A smile crept on Enola's face “you're not _allowed_? I'm sure I can get Mother to lift the ban now that you're both in your thirties...”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “That's beyond the point. I just don't think locking the four of us in a room with food, candles and firecrackers is a good idea.”

Enola didn't say anything and for a moment Sherlock worried he might have upset her.“If you need a project to work on I can give you a case. Yes, let's do that, it will be my Christmas present, from me to you.”

Enola hesitated, clearly upset to see him use this obvious manoeuvre to keep her off the Christmas idea but also excited at the idea of finally getting to work on her own case.

“What... what sort of case?”

Sherlock looked at the Bunsen burner on his table. “That Kew Gardens story. You're right actually, why would a botanist get targetted by the Suffragettes? Go and have a look.”

Enola stared silently at him. She had a particularly effective piercing look which reminded him of their mother and made him highly uncomfortable. He liked reading other people. He hated being read.

“All right.” She said, and headed towards her bedroom. “I'll go and _investigate_. But we're still having round two that Christmas conversation when I'm back you know.”

“Sure...”

“Start thinking about your gifts.”

“I absolutely won't.”

“It's going to be great!”

Enola slammed the door behind her, letting Sherlock to reconsider all his recent life choices.


	2. Coming Up Roses

Hastily adjusting her hat pins, Enola headed down Baker Street in the crisp winter morning, the bustle of the city matching her own excitement.

She had been living in London for a few months now, yet she still felt the same thrill at walking down the famous streets and avenues, mingling with the crowd rushing indifferently past renowned places and buildings she had only known from books and stories about her brothers before. It had been a lot to take in at first: the cars, the smells, the untold rules she was expected to know – don't stand on the right of the stairs! Don't go in there if you're a lady! Queue here! Leave the parks after dark! – and the people. People, everywhere, all the time, and from all walks of life, some ill-intentioned, some protective and helpful, most completely indifferent to her fate.

Moving to the city had felt like getting thrown into the ocean after learning how to swim in an indoor pool. But Enola was a fast learner, and soon she had mastered the city's capricious waves, navigating it perhaps not with complete ease but well enough not to completely drown.

And there was so much to look at, so much to observe, so many stories hidden between the cracks. She enjoyed trying to peek into the big black carriages rushing up and down the street, sometimes catching the glimpse of a gloved hand or the glitter of a diamond earring. She liked holding the gaze of the elegant gentlemen going in and out of the fashionable white houses lining Baker Street, sometimes earning herself a judgemental frown or a kind smile from the ladies accompanying them, wrapped in ample dresses and cloaks like colourful butterflies.

Further down, she loved glancing into the mews to see what the fancy neighbourhood was hoping to hide: the servants rushing inside their masters' houses, the food getting delivered, the horses getting looked after. She liked the sight of the construction workers putting together yet another building, like ants hurrying themselves around a twig twice their size, the city constantly expanding. An endless playground, full of contrasts and possibilities.

Enola had now reached Mayfair, her nose up in the sparkling winter air, admiring the richly decorated windows of the fashionable shops. She had stopped in front of a tailor shop to look at a dark grey tie, vaguely wondering if it might make a good gift for Mycroft, when she noticed a curious reflection in the shop's window: across the street, a strange gentleman with a big moustache and dark glasses was clearly staring at her. At first glance nothing too unusual; like all young ladies of her age Enola had unfortunately learned that it was a thing gentlemen tended to do in the city. However she was certain she had already spotted his odd silhouette and unnerving stare a little earlier on Baker Street. It wasn't the first time she had felt someone following her in the last few months. She wasn't sure which Holmes was responsible for that – could be any of them, really – or if someone else was to blame, but she knew she didn't particularly enjoy it.

After hesitating for a few seconds Enola decided she didn't feel like taking risks so early after breakfast and, with a sigh, she marched into the tailor shop.

Luckily the place was full of customers, mostly women, fussing over ties and cufflinks in search of the perfect Christmas present for the men in their lives. Enola walked around at the leisurely pace of someone casually browsing. She absent-mindedly caressed a row of beautiful silk shirts perfectly chromatically arranged in a bright rainbow, then swiftly slipped the last one under her coat when she was certain no-one was looking. An elegant pair of pearl grey pinstripe trousers soon joined the shirt, followed by a matching jacket, a flat cap, and a nice silver tie pin which she didn't really need but quite fancied as an early Christmas gift for herself.

She was making her way towards the changing rooms, ready to transform and, hopefully, lose the man tailing her when she felt her heart skip a few beats: in the mirror right in front of her she could see the ominous dark glasses staring at her from only a few feet behind her. She tried to hurry towards the changing rooms, but he was already on her, firmly seizing her arm and escorting her to a quieter corner of the shop.

“I can't believe you tried to use that trick on me, I literally taught you that!” said the man in a strangely familiar voice.

Enola stared at him in disbelief as he lowered his glasses and winked at her. The young woman felt a rush of relief.

“Mother!? You scared me! Why are you following me? Nice moustache.”

“Thanks, your brother inspired me. Come on, let's leave before you get caught...”

The two women hurried outside, Enola insisting on leaving the clothes she had “borrowed” in a heap by the door.

“So why the moustache?” asked Enola when they had reached the street and regained a more leisurely pace.

“Oh I just wanted to check on you without feeling like an overbearing parent that's all.”

“Somehow I don't think a normal visit would feel more overbearing than you actually stalking me...”

Eudoria waved her suggestion away “It's still a little unsafe for me to show my face around town, and your brother doesn't like when I just show up unannounced at his place, apparently I don't move in appropriate circles and could damage his reputation.”

“I'm sure he doesn't think that...”

“It's quite all right, I don't like his friends either. So what is new with you, my city girl?”

Enola diplomatically let her mother stir the conversation away from delicate topics. For a little while she just talked about her life in London since they had last seen each other. The strolls around town, the teas with Edith, the daily life with Sherlock. She tried to paint her brother and their cohabitation in as positive a light as possible but her mother's politely raised eyebrows told her she might not have succeeded.

“So, which shade of white did he turn when you suggested that Christmas party idea to him?”

Enola couldn't contain a laugh. “I believe it was like that building over there: bright white with a nice undertone of grey. So will you come?”

Her mother smiled. “If you manage to put your two brothers in a room with a Christmas tree and the promise to be nothing but charming for the next few hours there is no way I'm missing it.” Eudosia looked pensively at her daughter. “I always thought you would have a good influence on him, now let's hope he has a good influence on you...”

“I swear he does Mother, I'm learning so much from him!”

“So now he is sending you on a case for him? On your own?” asked Eudoria with as much scepticism as she could muster without sounding rude.

“Oh I'm not going on my own! I thought I could ask a friend for help... You know my friend the Viscount Tewkesbury? He is in the House of Lords now, and he is surprisingly knowledgeable when it comes to botany, I thought he could be useful on the case.” Her breezy tone could have been almost convincing if her cheeks had managed to remain the normal amount of red that could be blamed on the cold. Eudoria smiled under her moustache but diplomatically restrained herself to comment.

“Well, I'm actually glad you're on the case because there is definitely something fishy going on. One of us was in Kew Gardens last night: Lydia Becker, she founded the Women's Suffrage Journal in Manchester but she is also a brilliant botanist. She was just visiting fellow scientists yesterday but we haven't heard from her since, we think they might try to accuse her of causing the explosion.”

Enola shifted a little uncomfortably on her feet. “So you're certain it wasn't her?”

Eudoria smiled patiently. “I know the subtlety is lost on a lot of people but we only target properties and infrastructures, not people. We're not assassins. I'm not going to pretend Kew Gardens hasn't been on our list of potential targets for a while, but why would we kill an innocent botanist who never had anything to do with our cause?”

“He could have accidentally been at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“I guess that's what you're going to have to find out.”

Eudoria stopped to caressed her daughter's cheek. “I know it must all feel very scary and confusing at the moment. But the war Lydia and I are fighting, it's all worth it, I promise. Unfortunately nothing is free in this world, especially when you're a woman. You can't get anything without fighting for it... Unless you're a Viscount I guess...”

Enola laughed pensively. They had now reached the Parliament area and could see the large shadow of its intricate and highly guarded building at the end of the street.

“Things rarely change in there without a proper push from the outside world first you know. That's what we are doing now, giving them a push.” Eudoria rearranged her daughter's scarf in typical motherly fashion and stared at her for a while. “Go, keep making your own path my love, you've been doing rather well so far.”

And with a warm moustachioed smile, she disappeared in the crowd.


	3. Every Rose Has Its Thorns

In her daughter's education throughout the years Eudoria Holmes had covered a wide – and some might say, inappropriate – range of topics, running from history and geography to archery and boxing. Unfortunately, dealing with the opposite sex hadn't been one of them, and for the first time in her life, as she was waiting for a familiar face to emerge from the sea of dark coats and black hats flooding out of Westminster, Enola found her education lacking.

She hadn't seen Tewkesbury since the vote and she had refused his offer to move in with his family, and she wasn't exactly sure where they were standing now. Meeting him on her first adventure had been easy, instinctive, both of them too focused on the problems at hand to worry about propriety or each other's feelings. But he was a member of the House of Lords now, and she was... well a lady for real now, and they probably had to be a little more careful. They had found each other when nobody else wanted them, but now that they both seemed to have found their place in the world did they still need each other?

He spotted her from the crowd and a wide, earnest smile lit up his face. Excellent reaction, Enola thought. He made his way through the crowd to join her.

“Enola Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He looked at her for a little while, taking in her elegantly cut coat and fashionable hair: her brothers had insisted she moved into Baker Street with a proper wardrobe. “Are you undercover from your brother again?”

“No, undercover working _for him_ this time. And this is how I always dress now.”

He smiled “I'll still miss the breeches I think... So... Did you miss me? Again?”

“Actually, I'm here on _business_.” Enola felt particularly proud of her professional tone and started walking away from Westminster towards the Tube station, forcing him to keep pace with her. “My brother has sent me on a very important case in Kew Gardens. As you know I don't care about flowers, but I seem to remember that you do. Besides, having a Viscount and a member of Parliament accompanying me probably wouldn't hurt.”

“Is that about Dr Thesiger's death? Yes I saw that in the paper, tragic... But doesn't everyone seem to think those dreadful suffragettes did it?”

“That's what we need to find out. And they're not dreadful, they're just trying to get their voices heard.”

Tewkesbury's condescending laugh reminded her why she had spent so much of their first adventure together wanting to punch him. “By destroying public and private proprieties and endangering the lives of respectable citizens?”

“It's easy for you to say, you can vote, you're literally in Parliament!”

“Yes I am, trying to change things from the inside while those women are...” A welcome instinct of self-preservation made Tewkesbury stop at the sight of Enola's face. He sighed. “I'm assuming we are off trying to prove they didn't do it?”

“Exactly.”

Tewkesbury looked around uncomfortably. “Do you think it's all right for me to accompany you? I do have responsibilities now...”

Enola refused to give in to her growing feeling of disappointment. She tried to keep her tone as casual as possible. “Nonsense! On the contrary, you people should probably spend a little more time in the real world, otherwise how are you going to know what decision to make for the good of the people?"

Tewkesbury smiled but still seemed hesitant. “All right... but no jumping off trains this time!”

Enola grinned and hurried down the station's stairs “Of course!”

“And no getting shot!”

“Very unlikely on this case.”

“And no escaping through windows!”

“Well, I cannot possibly promise that...”

*

Kew Gardens looked particularly magnificent this time of year. The alleyways around the main conservatories and buildings had been lined with multicoloured lanterns, and little floating candles had been added to the pools, gliding lazily around like sparkling fairies. Musical bands and carollers were spread around the park, and families and couples were strolling from one to another, all bundled up in the chilly mid-afternoon dusk, enjoying a rare moment of peace and beauty before the final rush to Christmas.

Enola and Tewkesbury walked around for a while in companionable silence, enjoying the serene atmosphere and each other's company. For a fleeting moment there was no more cases, no more responsibilities, just two teenager enjoying a lovely walk.

“So, how are you enjoying changing the world from the inside?” eventually asked Enola.

“It's... interesting. Sometimes exciting, sometimes quite frustrating. The more I learn the more I realise I actually don't know anything, and everybody around me seems three steps ahead of me, more experienced, more confident... How about you? How is it, living with the world's most famous detective?”

Enola felt a strange rush of relief. “Actually, it's exactly the same.”

Tewkesbury smiled warmly. “At least if your brother is sending you on a case on your own it must mean he trusts your capacities don't you think?”

“Or he is just trying to get rid of me.”

“I can't imagine wanting to get rid of you.”

Enola was eager to stir the conversation back into less awkward territories. “It's all right, I'm going to show him that I can be as good a detective as him, then he won't have a choice but to keep me around. Come on, they said the assistant-director Mr Hooper would be in the Palm House.”

Walking against the current of visitors hastening out in the setting sun, Enola and Tewkesbury walked through the tall white doors of the gigantic conservatory. The change in atmosphere and temperature took quite literally their breath away.

It was like setting foot into another world, a world Enola had only seen glimpses of in the black and white engravings in her mother's books. There was nothing black and white about it in real life. They had literally walked into a jungle, a sea of every shades of green, sometimes punctuated by a dash of crimson or fuchsia from fleshy flowers shaped like strange, colourful bugs. The air was warm and heavy with humidity, making her breath ragged and her hair frizzle. The structure of the conservatory seemed to hover miles away above their head, sharp and white like the bones of a giant whale, offering a stark contrast between the delicate, cold Victorian ironwork and the luxurious greens of the slick palm leaves dancing gently below. The setting sun cast an eerie light on the place, lining the intricate shapes of the dark leaves with gold, setting the mist ablaze with sparks of fire.

For a moment Enola thought she would never be able to make Tewkesbury leave. The young Viscount had dropped all semblance of self-control and dignity and was hurrying up and down the tiled paths, marvelling at every new specimen he could spot. Enola rolled her eyes fondly and joined him. They walked around for a while, Tewkesbury regularly launching into extensive explanations about the rarity of the Ramosmania rodriguesii and the age of the oldest cycad, his enthusiasm highly contagious.

Soon they reached the end of the Palm House and voices coming from a nearby half-opened door marked “staff only” made Enola stop. She shushed Tewkesbury and the two of them quickly hid behind a giant monstera, trying to take a peek through the fogged glass door. On the other side they could make out the blurry shapes of a man and a woman deep in an argument.

“ – telling me this is a coincidence? These are the Royal Botanic Gardens, a respectable place, an apolitical place, we don't get into trouble, but suddenly one of your lot arrives and I have a dead colleague and a half-destroyed office on my hands!”

“And I am telling you, yet again, that I had nothing to do with this. Yesterday evening I was at a dinner at Dr. Nesbit's who invited me, along with other fellow botanists, to discuss our most recent researches. I have several witnesses – four of them eminent members of the Gardens – who could testify for me, all of whom you and the police are categorically refusing to meet.” The woman's voice was calm and polite, but you could definitely feel a glimmer of the anger burning under the surface.

“I am not going to waste my colleagues' time with your nonsense, I'm going to – “

But Enola never heard what the man was going to do, because this was the moment Tewkesbury chose to let out a massive sneeze behind her.

She threw him the angriest look she could muster. “Sorry...” he replied, fumbling for a handkerchief “the humidity and the plants and...”

“What is going on here?”

Enola and Tweksbury froze, then looked up with their less guilty-looking smile. The noise had brought the attention of the man who was now standing on the threshold with crossed arms and the expression of someone used to getting explanations when asking for them. Behind him was a middle-aged lady with a kind but determined round face who was staring at Enola with piercing eyes.

Enola swallowed with difficulty, then offered her hand to shake. “My apologies Mr... Hooper I believe? I'm Enola Holmes, Sherlock Holmes' assistant, and this is my...”

Enola indicated Tewkesbury and suddenly realised what the situation might look like to an external observer. Their slightly crumpled clothes and frizzled hair. Hiding in the dark. Alone. Behind a palm tree? She cleared her throat. “My _associate_ , the Viscount Tewkesbury.”

Mr Hooper kept looking at her like she was a particularly resistant aphid he had just discovered crawling around his favourite orchid. However Tewkesbury's title seemed to activate his class instinct and put him in a slightly more polite mode.

“How may I help you, Viscount?”

Enola jumped back in the conversation with an annoyed sigh. “My brother has sent me to investigate the death of Dr Thesiger, and we were hoping to have a word with Mrs Becker as well: why is she your prime suspect?”

“Sir Hooper seems to think my political views and my gender trump any scientific contribution I might have made to the botanical world, erasing any confidence – or even respect – he might have had for me in the past.” Mrs Becker's sharp tone could have cut through the greenhouse's window panes.

“You knew what you were doing when you abandoned the scientific community to join a ridiculous movement which is widely considered a threat to societal order and public safety.”

“This ridiculous movement, Mr Hooper, is fighting against a gender inequality that a scientist such as you should clearly see as unnatural. Your eminent director, Sir Hooker, actually agrees with me on this, but I suspect you are quite enjoying making the most of his current absence to exercise an authority and superiority you would otherwise be lacking.”

Mr Hooper grew so red his magnificent beard seemed at risk to self-combust. Enola interfered before it had a chance to happen.

“Perhaps I could help clear out what seems to be a terrible misunderstanding by having a look around Dr Thesiger's office? I mean, what is left of it. I'm sure I would be able to determine what caused the explosion and clear Mrs Becker's name.”

Lydia Becker smiled warmly for the first time since the start of the conversation. “That would be much appreciated Miss Holmes. As I keep repeating, none of us had any interest in poor Eugene's death. The poor man had just come back from South America, I didn't even have a chance to catch up with him about his exciting new discoveries.”

Perhaps it was getting bossed around by two clearly competent women, one of them young enough to be his grand-daughter, or Tewkesbury's fresh face and silence, making him forgot his title and power, but Mr Hooper did not seem willing to cooperate.

“I don't know what your brother is playing at, sending you and this boy to investigate a serious crime to this sacred institution, but I will not let you sniff around our crime scene. I'm going to ask you to leave, and Mrs Becker is going to follow me back to my office and won't leave until she has been interrogated by the proper authorities. Inspector Lestrade is on his way.”

Lydia Becker rolled her eyes with the casual annoyance of someone who had just been told her train got delayed. “But I'm expected back to Manchester tonight, this is absurd!”

“Well, you must take responsibilities for your actions, follow me please.”

Mrs Becker ignored him and moved towards Enola. She observed her for a little while. “So you're Eudoria's girl? It looks like the apple didn't fall far from the tree this time...” Enola smiled, feeling a rush of sympathy for the woman in front of her. She had so many questions, about how she got there, and what she was fighting for. But mostly she wanted to help her, to use her own talents to support another woman in need, and in a weird way she thought that Lydia Becker could feel it too.

Before Enola could say anything the botanist seemed to spot something behind her. She bent over to reach a striking red flower blooming on a low bush.

“ _Heliconia Rostrata_ ,” she murmured... “beautiful as always...” She stayed her back turned to them for a few seconds, seemingly lost in the contemplation of the specimen in front of her, then turned back towards the group.

“Shall we go Mr Hooper? We don't want to leave Inspector Lestrade waiting. It was a pleasure to meet you both.” Lydia Becker disappeared between the green palms followed by a mumbling Mr Hooper.

“Oh god,” moaned Tewkesbury after they were certain to be out of earshot, “what do we do now? Enola?”

Enola didn't reply because she wasn't listening. She was kneeling by the bright flower Mrs Becker had admired, and picked up the bag she had seen her cunningly slip in the dirt beneath the foliage while nobody else could see her. She opened the drawstring and paled.

“Enola?” Tewkesbury kneeled down beside her, putting a supportive hand on her shoulder. “What is it?”

Enola didn't dare move. She didn't dare speak too loudly either. She swallowed with difficulty.

“I think Lydia Becker really needs our help.”

In the bag in front of her, fashioned out of a rectangular tin can with a faded label, was an unarmed but perfectly functional bomb.


	4. Pushing Daisies

“How can you be so calm?”

“Well panicking doesn't seem like a very reasonable thing to do when dealing with a bomb. And stop whispering so loudly you're going to get us caught.”

“How can you whisper loudly?”

“Well I don't know, but clearly you've managed it!”

“...But what if the _thing_ goes off?”

“It's not going to unless we activate it! Shut up, I can't think properly with you buzzing around like that.”

Enola and Tewkesbury had been sitting in the upper branches of a big oak tree for a few hours. The park was now completely covered in darkness, still and silent in the dark blue velvet of the winter night. The last few visitors had left hours ago and the two young detectives were waiting for the end of the current night round before leaving their uncomfortable hiding place.

“You really owe me for that one you know.” declared Tewkesbury after a little while, trying to wrap his coat more tightly around himself.

Enola sighed. “I already saved your life at least three times since we met, _you_ owe me.”

“What was the point if you were going to then let me freeze to death in a tree?”

“I thought I needed you, now I realise I actually don't, that's all.”

Tewkesbury laughed. He tried to turn around to get a proper look at the young woman sitting on the nearby branch but could only make out a blurry blue shape in the dark.

"You're right actually,” he whispered with a smile, “you really don't need me, you don't even Sherlock Holmes. I think Mrs Becker sensed it too. She knows you can crack this case.”

Enola pondered this silently for a while, staring at the peaceful park stretching for miles in front of her, the moonlight creating elegant, ghostly shapes on the lawns, the air sparkling silver from the cold.

“I guess I don't _need_ anyone. But, I don't know, sometimes it's also nice to have someone to share all of this with.”

Tewkesbury didn't have time to react: suddenly a tiny spark of light emerged from the darkness in front of them, bobbing around like a happy glow worm.

“This must be the last guard heading back inside after his round,” whispered Enola excitedly, “we'll be able to go soon! Remember: we go straight to Thesiger's office. No dawdling, no looking at the pretty trees, we get there, investigate the crime scene, then we get to Mr Hooper's office with enough proof to hopefully acquit and free Mrs Becker.”

“All right, but what about the – “

“Tewkesbury, you better not mention the bomb.”

“What about it though? What if the police find it on us? You could get imprisoned for that, I could lose my job...”

“Look, it's clearly not ours, it's a clue. No matter what her real target was, if Mrs Becker still had the bomb with her today it means she didn't put it in Thesiger's office last night, which means the explosion was caused by something else. We just need to find out what. Come on, let's go!”

Enola and Tewkesbury started climbing down the tree as fast, silently, and carefully as possible, which was probably too many things to keep in mind while climbing down a tree.

“Listen, I don't know if you've heard, but I have, in Westminster, and what they do to these women, to the women like Mrs Becker when they catch them, it's bad Enola, it's really, really bad...”

Enola felt a mixture of annoyance and warmth at the worry in his voice. This made her lose focus for one crucial second, and her foot suddenly slipped from the last branch before the ground. Her scream of surprise got caught in her throat as she fell. Suddenly she felt arms wrapping around her, cushioning her fall: Tewkesbury had reached the ground before her and caught her as she was sliding down.

They stayed like that for a little too long, wrapped in each other's arms, mortified by the sudden intimacy. In a rare moment of bravery Tewkesbury was the first to break the silence. “I just... I just don't want anything bad to happen to you...”

Enola wasn't really sure what to say to that. She felt like there wasn't really anything to _say_... She shifted a little, her face now uncomfortably close to his...

The bark of an enormous guard dog nearby came to interrupt the scene with the same violence as if the bomb hidden in Enola's coat had exploded.

“Let's go!” Enola seized Tewkesbury's hand and the both of them started running across the lawn towards the building where they were hoping to find Thesiger's office, trying to remain in the safe shadows of the trees, and letting the night securely envelop them.

The bark didn't seem to follow them. Soon they reached the building and hid in the corner of the big stone bannister leading to the main door to catch their breath.

“So,” huffed Tewkesbury, looking at the imposing building hovering above them. “What do we do now? How are we going to find Thesiger's office?”

“First floor, third window from the right.” Enola pointed above Tewkesbury's head. A few of the windows were still brightly lit. The third window from the right on the first floor wasn't. Instead, it was covered in a large, white tarp, clearly hastily hung from the inside, which was rustling peacefully in the evening breeze.

Following the length of the building they found a service door which was still open and sneaked into a little kitchen area. Everything seemed dark and quiet, the building probably just occupied by a few night guards and some local scientists burning the midnight oil.

“You'd think they would be a little more wary after what happened last night,” remarked Tewkesbury while checking that the coast was clear in the service stairs.

“Well, they probably think lightning doesn't strike the same place twice.”

“That's pretty bad for scientists...”

Enola smiled and led the way up the stairs. They made their way to the first floor fairly easily, only having to hide in the shadow of a doorway once as they got walked past by an old man muttering to himself while deeply buried in a leather bound volume almost as tall as him.

The corridor leading to Thesiger's office was completely empty, the winter moon shining from the single window at the end, casting long, eerie shadows on the checkerboard floor, like ghostly chess pieces.

Enola and Tewkesbury started counting doors and finally reached the third one from the back wall. It bore a small little brass sign with “Dr Eugene Thesiger” engraved on it. Ostensibly breaking the police seals, they turned the handle and let themselves into the office, closing the door back behind them.

The first thing Enola noticed was the smell. Burnt wood and fabric, overpowered by a strange acrid stench which made her eyes water. It reminded her of that time the neighbours' barn had burned down back home, enveloping the area in dark smoke and the thick smell of scorched straw for hours.

The shape of a half-burned candle could be made out on the cabinet by the door. Tewkesbury went to light it, casting a warm orange glow on the crime scene.

The room was small and quite cramped. At least it had been before what had clearly been quite an impressive explosion had cleared out half of it. The epicentre could clearly be located in the middle of the room, by the black remains of what must have been quite a massive desk, now a corpse of charred wood helplessly raising its feet towards the ceiling. The wall on the left was covered in bookshelves whose content had almost completely burned down, while the right wall supported a workbench with the remains of a chemistry kit, a few surviving fresh plant specimens, and towers of cardboard boxes precariously perched in one corner.

Enola grabbed the candle from Tewkesbury's hand and moved towards the remains of the desk, carefully looking around. She tore half the tarp off the window, letting moonlight flood the scene.

“That was quite an explosion...” murmured Tewkesbury, carefully lifting some of the plants left on the bench.

“Yes... strange though, there doesn't seem to be the trace of any explosive device left behind...”

“Maybe the police took it?”

“You mean Lestrade did his job? Yes, right... no, there's something different, something... wrong...”

Enola had already seen her fair share of explosions in her short life – which she considered a good thing for a detective – and something about this one just didn't feel right. She was missing something, like if she had zoomed in too quickly on a detail with a camera and couldn't make out the bigger picture any more. She just couldn't quite put her finger on it.

“I don't know why they think he would be an interesting target for the suffragettes though,” said Tewkesbury absent-mindedly, “the man was apparently studying clubmosses for God's sake...”

Something whirled in Enola's brain, the picture slightly bigger but still blurry. She turned around. “He studied what?”

“ _Lycopodiopsida_ , look.” Tewkesbury held out a bunch of weird pale green leaves, like strange three-dimensional ferns or a bunch of tiny Christmas trees. “These are fresh so they didn't burn as easily. Let's see, if he just came back from a trip he should have more samples...”

Tewkesbury reached out for one of the boxes stacked nearby. Unfortunately, just barely tugging at it was enough to disturb the shaky equilibrium of the structure, and the box at the top of the pile soon toppled down, sending its content flying towards the ground just as Enola was making her way to the workbench with the candle held high.

The flash of fire was so sudden it threw both of them to the ground, and so quick it was already over by the time they had reached the carpet, letting them panting in disbelief with the now familiar smell of burnt straw hovering above them, their clothes and hair covered in a strange yellowish dust.

And suddenly the full picture came into focus in Enola's head.

“Tewkesbury, that's it!” Enola rose to her feet, brushed her clothes, took Tewkesbury by the arm to help him up, brushed his clothes too, then climbed on the workbench to reach one of the remaining boxes.

“These plants Thesiger studied, what did you say they were?”

“clubmosses, he just brought them back from – “

“the other name, the scientific name.”

“ Lycopodiopsida...?”

“See, when I was seven Mother took me to the theatre for the first time. It was just one of those Christmas pantomimes at the local village, but I was hooked. Things went awry when the dragon meant to be defeated by St George arrived. It was huge, and red, and breathing giant flames of real fire above the crowd. I was so terrified I couldn't stop crying, so my mother did what she always did to try and reassure me: she explained how things worked. She took me backstage and asked the actors to show me how they did the dragon. The creature was basically just three men in a big red costume, and the fire...”

Understanding dawned on Tewkesbury's face. “Lycopodiopsida, of course!”

Enola opened the box which, like the one which had scattered on them, contained branches and branches of dried clubmoss, most of them already reduced to a fine powder by time and transport. She took a handful.

“The fire, they explained, was made from lycopodium powder, a fine powder made from the spores of certain types of plants – ferns, or clubmosses. Perfectly inoffensive most of the the time, but if dispersed in the air next to an open flame – “

She threw the handful of powder in front of her just as Tewkesbury held out the candle. The effect was immediate: the dust caught fire in an impressive fireball which burnt down almost instantly.

“You'd think a biologist like Thesiger would know about that.” remarked Tewkesbury.

Enola jumped down from the workbench. “It's usually too quick to be harmful. But here, in a cramped, dusty room which hadn't been opened in months and next to scientific equipment...”

“A ticking bomb.”

They looked at each other with their clothes full of dust, exhilarated by their discovery, smiling, standing probably a little too close.

“You're a genius,” whispered Tewkesbury. The glow of fondness and admiration in his eyes made Enola feel unbelievably warm inside. Without really thinking, still running on the adrenaline of the night, she moved forward and kissed him.

This bold move had mixed results. One, because, thankfully, Tewkesbury seemed to respond in a positive way. Two, because for a few seconds they were so focused on each other they didn't hear the door open behind them.

“I seem to remember telling the two of you to go away!”

Mr Hooper was standing on the threshold, followed by a ominously smiling Lestrade and five policemen.

“Well it's a good thing we didn't listen to you Mr Hooper,” laughed Enola, “because you were wrong, I solved the case!”

“Solved it? What are you talking about?”

“It wasn't a bomb. Lydia Becker is innocent! Look, the explosion was caused by lycopodium powder, from the plants.”

“Explosive plants now,” sneered Lestrade, “Mr Hooper what is she talking about? Is that even possible?”

The old scientist didn't say anything and looked intently at Enola. She held his gaze and could see his nostril twitching.

“Mr Hooper, you're a scientist, I know you can smell it too, that strange acrid smell, it's clearly not gunpowder, it's not a bomb, it's something else.”

The man still wouldn't move. Enola kept going, carefully but firmly, like she was trying to tame the dragon from the Christmas pantomime of her childhood.

“I know you don't like women like me and Lydia Becker. We're loud, we're inconvenient, and we can't satisfy ourselves with the current order of the world. But condemning an innocent woman just for that, that's not right.”

She knew it wouldn't work before he had even opened his mouth. “Inspector Lestrade, can you please ask your men to seize this woman and her accomplice.”

The policemen started moving ominously towards her. And suddenly, something in Enola snapped. Months, years of anger, of frustration, of constantly having to explain herself, to make herself small, to apologise for herself to condescending older and taller men hovering above her.

“Fine, if you can't be bothered to look for evidence, I'll show you the hard way.”

She took the bomb out of her coat pocket and ostensibly placed it on what was left of the desk. All the men in the room stopped moving and went pale.

“What are you...” whispered Lestrade.

Enola smiled, “you should probably all back off a little though, contrary to Dr Thesiger, I'm all for safety first.”

And without a moment's hesitation, she turned the bomb on, seized Tewkesbury by the hand, and jumped through the window.


	5. Gilded Lilies

“Stop fussing around, this wreath looks perfect!”

“I worry it's too close to your chemistry kit, have you learned nothing from our latest adventure?”

“I've learned multiple things, mostly not to upset you. And it wasn't our adventure, it was yours.”

Enola smiled and looked around her. The living room at 221B Baker Street looked magnificent. Telling Mrs Hudson that they were going to host a family Christmas party and asking for her help to make the place presentable had felt like its own Christmas present in itself for the landlady. She had had the main table cleared and covered in a crisp white tablecloth, hiding away the multiple brunt trace and mysterious stains she hadn't managed to clean off. The shelves had been dusted, and she had managed to get at least two of the giant stacks of newspapers cleared away from the fireplace area, apparently the conclusion to a year-long battle.

Sherlock had been just fussy enough to make the whole thing fun. Enola suspected he was actually quite enjoying himself. He had refuses to move the chemistry kit to his room and had feigned a dramatic shock when Mrs Hudson had suggested organising ash samples in boxes under the couch wasn't considered a proper filing system, but he had also insisted to put a holly wreath on the skull living on top of the mantelpiece, and a few days before the party he had brought in a huge Christmas tree himself, setting it strategically between to two windows to hide away some of the messiest filing cabinets. Enola and Sherlock had then spent a particularly lovely evening decorating it while drinking mulled wine, Sherlock sharing some of his most entertaining cases to a delighted and bright-eyed Enola.

He also kept coming back to what he called “the case of the explosive botanist”. Sherlock clearly had never been more proud of his sister than when he had showed up at Kew Gardens at the crack of dawn to find himself face to face with an angry Lestrade and a dirty, dishevelled, but safe and extremely smug Enola. He had also obviously been a lot more worried about her than he was willing to show, and a careful investigation of the sitting-room upon her return had let Enola convinced that he had spent most of the night trying to solve the case on his side while waiting up for her.

Admitting that nobody had been hurt by Enola's stunt and that, without the intervention of the young woman, they would have arrested the wrong person, Mr Hooper had decided not to press charges. Lestrade had reluctantly agreed. Enola suspected both her and Tewkesbury's family might have had something to do with it. Sherlock didn't seem to care about the technicalities, he seemed mostly proud of the way she had followed her guts and deduced what had happened just from the scene.

The first guest to arrive on Christmas day – unfashionably on time – was of course Mycroft. He seemed determined not to comment on Enola's latest adventures and just swapped boring comments about the latest political news with Sherlock until a flushed Mrs Hudson announced a new visitor: “your mother is here.”

Mycroft's moustache seemed to twitch sheepishly and Sherlock held himself a little straighter as Eudoria entered the room. She hesitated a little on the threshold, taking them in, her three beautiful, deliciously weird children, then moved towards them and hugged a slightly stiff Mycroft and Sherlock with a smile. “My boys!... and my girl!” She kissed Enola on both cheeks, holding her face for a little while. “It's good to see you all three here, together.”

“Shall I...” Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably, “shall I give you a tour, Mother?”

“Oh that would be lovely dear, I can't believe I've never been here before!”

Sherlock took the hit as gracefully as possible and took his mother around the apartment, stopping once in a while to explain some paraphernalia Eudoria was curious about or Sherlock proud of. Finally, they reached Enola's room. Sherlock and his sister exchanged a worried glance: they hadn't discussed it openly, but they were both aware that today also felt like a test, a way for Eudoria to check her daughter was in good hands, and her son an appropriate guardian.

Enola had spent way too much time arranging her room in a way that made it look tidy but not like she had tried too hard. Eudoria looked around carefully, taking in the fresh bed linen, the perfectly organised painting kit, and the very appropriate novel casually thrown on the bed.

“Well, I'm impressed, this is actually even nicer than that latest lodging you stayed at. The book on the bed is a very nice touch.” She turned towards her two children, eagerly awaiting her judgement. “It looks like you two are taking good care of each other. Now I should probably say the most important thing is that you keep each other out of trouble, but I know that's not really how we do things in this family.” She smiled wickedly, and made her way back to the sitting room.

*

Despite a few bumps on the road Enola felt this first Holmes Christmas at Baker Street was a roaring success. Mycroft had made an effort and taken a visibly extremely nervous Tewkesbury under his wing: the two were now talking all things Westminster on the couch. Enola smiled. They hadn't had a chance to really talk since _that_ night. It was all right. They had time.

By the fireplace Sherlock and Mrs Becker were deep in a conversation about botany, under the extremely amused look of Edith and Eudoria sitting next to them. “Lydia is really good at doing that thing where she uses botany to explain the absurdity of gender division amongst the human race, we give her half an hour before she completely radicalises your brother.” Enola laughed, thinking it was about time.

Soon Eudoria took out the word game she had brought and all the guests started settling around the table to play. In the agitation of the moment Sherlock took Enola aside by the Christmas tree.

“I know we haven't done gifts yet, but this is a rather special one so I want to give it to you first.”

He handed her an embroidered handkerchief, which she unfolded to reveal a rectangular and shiny brass plaque.

_Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes_

_Consulting Detectives_

“I thought it could look good under our doorbell don't you think?”

Enola nodded without daring looking away from the plaque. She could feel tears of joy tightening her throat. Sherlock squeezed her shoulder and gracefully left to join the table, giving her a little space. Mycroft was already contesting the rules and Eudoria was already cheating.

There would be other cases, with and without her brother, and other stories, but for now, Enola was just grateful she had a full evening ahead of just playing parlour games with the mismatched group of misfits she was lucky enough to call family.


End file.
